


Blood Debts

by wargoddess



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest, Tentacles, transactional sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 07:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19127599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: "Do you even remember my mother, anyway?" is the question that Nero eventually asks him.





	Blood Debts

**Author's Note:**

> A little something different. NOT part of the Family Affair series, although it could be. For those who don't want to read that mess, my headcanon in those fics is simply that Vergil is pretty much a perfect sociopath, with difficulty mastering human emotions, etc. when he even bothers to try. He's adopted demonic behavior instead, for the most part. Implied D/V incest in the past. The rest can be inferred from context, I think.
> 
> Oh, and it's not actually a tentacle. It's his tongue. But I figured that tag would catch the people for whom this is a squick.

     "Do you even remember my mother, anyway?" is the question that Nero eventually asks him.

#

     The woman has been following him for the past half-day.  Vergil hasn't thought much about it, because demons have attacked every time he's alone, and at first he assumed that would take care of the problem.  Then a few hours later, in the middle of slicing half a dozen scarecrows into sulfurous smoke, he'd caught a glimpse of her in a nearby alley -- stabbing a scarecrow through the head with some kind of thin lance.  While he paused to observe, she withdrew the lance, held it ready until she was certain the demon was indeed dead and dissolving, then collapsed it into a small cylindrical rod, which she then raised her skirt to return to a sheath on her leg.  Then she froze and looked up, her eyes widening within that ugly hood all Fortuna citizens wore, as she spied him. 

     Slow reflexes, poor instincts, and barely able to handle even a minor demon.  Unimpressive. Still, Vergil inclined his head to her in simple courtesy, since she had at least relieved him of the need to kill one more of the annoying creatures.  Then he'd moved on to the more interesting prey already manifesting at the other end of the courtyard.

     Now he sits in the main room of the Fortuna Hotel, drinking wine he barely tastes and eating food he doesn't need.  He isn't particularly tired, though he's spent the day killing his way through the Order's secrets.  He's tired of killing vermin, however, so staying here for the night solves two problems.  And in spite of everything, he finds himself no closer to understanding _why_ these humans have corrupted themselves, opened portals to the underworld, and generally been extremely foolish.  It's a minor concern.  He's damaged their Savior badly enough to set their plans back by decades, and it's clear that they have no real information about Sparda or his power.  Still, Vergil is curious.  It has always been a failing.

     The woman is curious, too -- or so he gathers as she moves through the busy room, nodding now and again as she encounters acquaintances.  She blends in well with the other sheep:  modest posture, downcast gaze, unremarkable appearance other than the red dress she wears.  The dress would be dull anywhere else -- not a particularly rich red, undertones of brown, in a style that lands somewhere between "frumpy" and plain old ugly.  Here in Fortuna, where frumpy is the order of the day, the dress' color stands out like flame on a flat plain.  Then, too, she smells of sulfur-smoke from the demons that she's killed; the scent is faint, but lingers.  Humans might not notice, or they might notice but not realize that they're noticing, because humans make no sense.  They give her a wide berth, regardless.  A sheep that smells like a wolf.  But is the wolf-skin the camouflage, or the sheep-wool?

     Not that any of it matters.  No one in the room is strong enough even to make good prey, to him.  It's just curiosity.

     (Does she see the clerk at the inn's front desk move to the right, angling to keep an eye on her as if he expects her to steal something?  Does she notice how the others look at her, pursing their lips and sucking their teeth as she passes?  Maybe.  Does she care?  He doesn't think so.)

     She reaches his table and touches the back of the open chair.  "May I share your table, good sir?"

     Her tone is suitably deferential.  No scent of poison, arcane binding-spells, or weaponry other than the collapsible lance.  Her heartbeat is too slow for pre-attack tension, even though she's effectively been hunting him for hours.  Faster than it should be, however, which indicates... he isn't sure.  Excitement of some kind.  Nerves, maybe.  She's seen him kill demons all day.  She knows what he is.

     He decides not to kill her and inclines his head.  She sits.

     "You're Vergil," she says.  "One of the sons of Sparda."

     "You're still alive," he replies.  "And don't you mean a son of 'the Savior?'"

     She tilts her head to acknowledge the point, keeping her gaze demurely downcast as she does so.  It annoys him instantly.  "I didn't think you were a believer, so it seemed best to use his actual name," she says.  "And in any case, most members of the Order don't actually mean _Sparda_ when they speak of the Savior.  As you've seen."

     Ah, now here is something worthy of his time:  the woman is an information source.  Although he must first assess her value as such.  "Yes.  Why aren't you a demon?"

     The question actually startles her into looking up at him and laughing a little, though it has a bitter edge.  "You might have noticed there are no women among the Order's elite."

     "Ah, yes.  Quite the sexist little nest of demon-infested fanatics, isn't it?"  More evidence that Sparda is only a meaningless tool to them.  Demons have many flaws, but they don't bother discriminating among themselves along any lines save those of strength.  And now that the woman has looked up and stopped presenting herself like prey, Vergil stops feeling the urge to eat her.  Now they may at least pretend to be civilized, however wide the gulf between them.  Also, he suspects she wouldn't taste good.  Not enough fat for proper marbling of the meat.

      She sighs, glaring around the room.  Her scent is laden with frustration, of many kinds and years-deep.  "Most people here are just simple folk trying to live their lives.  The demons aren't _supposed_ to attack anyone except dangerous outsiders, but..."  She spreads her hands.  "They're demons.  And Fortuna's murder-and-missing rate is higher than it should be for a town of this size.  The elites don't care as long as the faithful keep making tithes, so I do what I can to keep them in check."  Another sigh.  "When I applied to join the Holy Knights, they suggested I join the cantor division.  Inspire the brethren with song."

     Vergil has learned more about this pack of idiots in five minutes of conversation than a whole day of battle.  _See, brother?_ taunts the Dante in his mind.  _Humans might actually be useful for something besides target practice.  Something something flies, honey, vinegar, you know I never remember that shit._

     Maybe Vergil will be rid of thoughts like this once he's killed Dante at last. 

     "I see," Vergil says, because human conversation requires filler, and he wants to keep her talking.

     It works.  She relaxes.  "God, I can't even carry a tune.  I don't know why I stay here."

     Because cults do not easily relinquish even problem members, he suspects.  "I imagine the Order isn't keen on word getting out about their little demon problem."

     "No.  Though if you're here, it already has."  She starts to open her mouth, to say more, and then hesitates and lowers her gaze again.  Worried about saying too much, in public view, to a man who is obviously no friend to the Order.  It won't do.

     Vergil gets to his feet, settling the sword that has not left his hip since he entered the town.  Even sheep can be dangerous sometimes.  "Come with me."

     She frowns, and doesn't budge.  He turns, slowly, to look at her until her jaw tightens in defensive tension, and then she sighs and finally gets up.

     He makes his way through the main room, ignoring everyone, staring down those who don't get out of his way until they do -- though most, in the way of small and easily-killable things, have enough self-preservation instinct to part the way for him well in advance.  When they reach the stairwell that leads up to the guest rooms, she hesitates again.  He's already gone up five steps, but he stops, not bothering to look back at her.  It should be obvious that they cannot speak here.

     "I can't go up to your room with you," she says, with a hint of exasperation.  "You're an outsider.  I'm not married.  If people see -- "

     "Then they will think nothing worse of you than they already do."

     He hears her little intake of breath, followed by a slower, resigned sigh.  "You don't pull any punches, do you?  Okay.  But I also don't _know_ you, or your intentions."

     Vergil finds himself growing bored.  If he'd wanted to rape her, she would be raped by now, and dead besides.  "I want information, and you're going to give it to me.  If you would prefer to do so in the common room -- "

     "No," she blurts.  Then, under her breath, "You're going to get me killed.  Fuck."  Another moment's hesitation.  Vergil's boredom has turned into faint amusement.  Her quiet vulgarity is a small kind of rebellion, like her dress, but it makes him like her better.  "Okay... okay."  She finally begins following him.

     The Fortuna Hotel is surprisingly fancy.  Vergil's room is a suite complete with couches, a desk, and a balcony.  He opens the balcony door for fresh air and so that he can make sure there is no scent or sound of nearby listeners, human or other.  They're alone, at least for now.  It will do.

     "Tell me everything you know about the Order," he says.

     "Or you'll kill me?"

     He turns back to consider her.  She stands in the middle of the room, conspicuously choosing neither the bed nor the couch to sit on.  Here in private she has pushed back her hood to reveal a wealthy of curly dark hair.  Ah, yes -- some different ethnicity here, blended into the bland pallor of Fortuna folk.  He sees it in her cheekbones, too, and the fullness of her lips.  She must have been a pariah here since birth; small wonder she's decided to embrace it.

     And though she smells of fear and defiance, there is also that lingering undercurrent of something else that he noticed before.  Yes, small wonder on that, too.

     "Threats of violence rarely elicit information," he says.  "Neither does actual violence.  You would simply tell me what I want to hear, and I want truth.  Unvarnished.  For that, only one thing works:  payment."

     She lets out a little sour puff of not-quite-laughter.  Away from the judgmental eyes of her fellow Fortunans, she has also discarded the stiff propriety that women are supposed to exhibit; she shifts her weight and puts a hand on one hip.  "Foreign money's no use to me," she says.  "Not in this town.  They'll take yours because you're obviously not from around here.  If I tried that, though..."  She sighs.

     "It might be useful if you leave."  He shrugs.  "But there is other coin."

     Now she actually looks skeptical.  "What are you offering?"

     "Information of my own, sex, weapons, an assassination or two if they're not out of my way -- "

     She holds up a hand.  "Uh.  Back up.  _Sex_?"

     He doesn't bother to repeat it.  She obviously heard him.

     She stares, and he wonders if she is aware that he can smell her sudden interest.  "If you're asking me for sex and information -- "

     "I'm _offering_ sex.  In exchange for information."  He'd thought that was clear.  She doesn't seem stupid.

     "Savior Bless."  She shakes her head, mouth open in frank disbelief.  "You know, I'm not even part of the Order elite -- "

     "I've already learned their secrets.  What you can provide is... context."  He shrugs.  "You're attracted to me.  You know what I am, and enough of demons to understand something of what that means.  You've had no recent lovers.  If you'd prefer the assassination, however, I'd suggest the front desk clerk of this hotel.  In the morning, of course.  After checkout."  He's already paid for the room, after all.

     She stiffens, as a proper Fortunan woman is supposed to do when propositioned by a strange foreigner for a one-night stand.  He resists the urge to yawn.  "What the hell makes you think I'm attracted to you?  Or that I've had no recent -- "

     "You smell hungry."  She flinches silent.  It's irritating to have to state the obvious, but humans always seem to need that, so he does it.  "Years' worth of hunger.  Starvation.  It was there all day while you followed me.  It grows stronger when you look at me now, and as you consider my offer, and as you think about what it would be like to leave this town and find your fate.  You don't carry the scent of another person -- and in any case, no one here has the strength or wit to interest you.  Not if you're the kind of woman who wants _me_."

     A whole saga's worth of emotions moves across the woman's face.  Vergil is able to identify some of them.  Her shoulders hunch.  Shame, chagrin, and embarrassment at first.  Things she has been taught to feel.  Then her lips tighten in anger -- old anger, deep-welling and as familiar to Vergil as his own tattered, unwanted human soul.  The kind of anger that comes of ostracism, and having no one else to rely upon.  And, too, anger that is tired of bowing to the expectations of her small-hearted, backward people.  Next comes... grim acceptance?  Relief?  Vergil isn't as familiar with these.  She lifts her eyes again.  Her back straightens.  Ah, defiance.  The Order will not let her live up to her potential, and it will not let her leave, but she is the kind of woman who owns whatever middle ground she has chosen to occupy.  Even if she's the only one standing in it.

     Finally, she looks at him.  He knows her choice before she speaks.  "You don't even know my name."

     "I don't need to."

     She blinks, then chuckles.  It's always a relief, to them and to Vergil, when humans finally stop doing what others demand, and let their inner

     _demons_

     selves run free.

     "That's right," she says, smiling slowly as if savoring the concept.  "You don't."  Then she takes a deep breath and swallows hard.  "And it, ah, would seem foolish not to demand payment first."

     In reply, he shrugs off his coat.  Her gaze drifts down his body as he undresses, and now the look on her face is easy to read:  lust.  The hunter has found her prey.  He would find the concept laughable, ordinarily.  She's barely worthy of being prey herself.  And yet.  As he gets his clothes off and comes toward her, prowling without meaning to because he can't help being the predator that he is, she prowls _back_ , stepping forward to meet him and reaching for his body before he can take hold of her.  It isn't the way it should be.  He's so much stronger; she should offer herself up to his control.  She doesn't, though.  He slides a hand down her back, unzipping the ugly dress, and she reaches right for his cock -- fumbling at first because she's out of practice, but gaining confidence after a few strokes as he grows ready for her.  Abruptly she lunges for his throat, which makes him jerk reflexively (and think about killing her again).  But he feels her tongue move along one of the tendons, and... and the urge to lift his chin for her, to _offer_ her his throat, is strong.  When she bites him -- lightly, almost a tickle, nowhere near the threat that another demon's bite would be -- he makes a low sound despite himself.  He lifts his chin. 

     It's a contest, rather than the settled thing it should be.  An equal exchange, more like lovemaking between demons of comparable strength. 

     (When was the last time he had that?  Dante, licking his throat and whispering --  Vergil stops this memory before it can form fully.)

     She's still trying to fumble the ugly dress off when Vergil picks her up and puts her on the low bookcase so that he can flip up her skirts and slip a hand between her legs.  She is hot and damp already beneath layers of underwear.  He slits the underwear open with a briefly-manifested claw, taking care not to touch her flesh with it because she is human and will not heal fast.  As soon as his fingertips touch her, however, she grabs his arm, not to push away but to pull forward.  So he obliges her by covering the whole area with his hand and massaging her clitoris -- the whole great wishbone of it, not just the lone nub that apparently most human men can't find.  She gasps and puts one foot up on the bookcase and tugs at him with noticeable impatience.  Hungry indeed.  So he steps forward, pushes her legs farther apart, then feeds her what she's been craving.

     He has to cover her mouth when she comes the first time, because she yells, and he doesn't feel like stopping to have a conversation with the judgmental inn clerk.  When she's done with that, he puts her on the bed facedown, pulls up her hips, and slides into her again, pleased to find her even hotter and wetter now.  More room to work.  He shifts his angle; she likes him deep, he's noticed, with a little extra pressure upward, so he applies himself with appropriate concentration to the task.  To his amusement, this causes more vulgarities to pour from her mouth, but at least this time they're muffled by the bed.  He rests a hand on her clit again, not stroking but just applying steady pressure, and she adds a guttural groan to the curses until the second orgasm finally lets her go.

     It's as though this energizes her.  She rolls over onto her back immediately, and pulls him down on top of her.  The look on her face is intent, to his surprise -- and he realizes why when she pulls him down for another, harder, nip at his neck.  He fucks her faster for a moment before catching himself.  He can almost feel her noticing this.  Studying him.  She caresses his torso, tickling his nipple at first and then pressing it and then pinching it hard enough to sting; he cannot help baring his teeth in a grin. 

     It's all too slow, though, too timid, and Vergil has to suppress his own frustration.  She is only human.  He's working on her next orgasm, with a hand down between them to make sure her clit gets some extra pressure with each thrust, when she suddenly digs her nails into his pectorals hard enough to bleed him.

     He doesn't mean to growl.  The growl isn't a human sound; it comes from his chest, not his throat, and it shivers the mirror and makes her eyes widen in pure atavistic terror.  He doesn't mean to come, either, but the pain -- minor as it is -- is exactly the goad he needs.  The growl turns into a hiss as his hips stutter and his balls throb and relief washes through him like a summer storm.

     Vergil stops then.  He doesn't want to, but he has had a few other human lovers over the years, and they never want to continue once they've glimpsed his other face in however small a measure.  Well, she's gotten a respectable offering of pleasure from him, even if he hasn't quite finished her off the way he meant to.  He wants her spent and exhausted, which will loosen her tongue when they talk.  And, it must be said, he is arrogant enough to want to be her best, even if he will never see her again after this night.

     Well.  Even the most powerful man in the human realm doesn't always get what he wants.  Vergil withdraws -- and immediately the woman locks her legs around his waist.  "It's not enough," she says.  Her expression is fierce, but her voice shakes.  She touches his face, and the hand trembles.  Vergil tilts his head, scenting carefully, but he's sure.  Not fear.  Definitely want.

     "I know what you are," she snaps, scowling.  "Give me that.  That's my payment.  All of it."

     "All of what I am would kill you or drive you mad," he replies, gently.  "I can give you a little.  It won't be pretty."

     She laughs, and it is glorious in its freedom.  For just that moment, he finds her beautiful.  "Fuck you.  I didn't _ask_ for pretty.  You're right, I'm starving, and I don't want baked chicken; I want filet mignon.  _Give it to me._ "

     Well, well, he thinks, as amused as he is surprised.  "A little more, then." 

     Then he grabs her thighs and pulls her up until she is nearly dangling upside down on the bed, blinking up at him in shock.  He kisses the nub of her clit, then lifts his head and shuts his eyes and lets his tongue slip forth to taste the air.  His _real_ tongue, black and forked and long enough to tickle the undersides of her breasts as he plays it over her skin and memorizes her scent.  When he looks at her again, she's staring with wide eyes... but that isn't fear in her face.  Quite the opposite.  Well, _well_.

     He devours her, then.  That this is metaphorical makes it no less thorough.  There are things a three-foot-long, prehensile, two-pronged tongue can do between a woman's thighs that no mere human can replicate.  She doesn't shout this time because the pleasure is too much; it unvoices her.  She just writhes and twitches, made mindless by his touch, and he drinks in her dissipation as his due.

     When he has slurped free of her body and laid her back on the bed, she's done.  He sits against the headboard beside her and formulates his list of questions while she gasps for breath and slowly stops shaking and then fumbles for the sheet to cover her sweaty skin as it cools.  She never did get her dress all the way off.

     Once she's coherent, he says, "I'm not tired.  Answer to my satisfaction, and there's more payment in it for you.  When you're ready."

     She stares up at him in open shock, then begins laughing.  It has a slightly hysterical edge, but mostly, that's delight.  He's fairly certain that it is, in any case.  (Humans make no sense.)

     She does answer his questions to his satisfaction, and finally gets the damned dress off.  So he rewards her by fucking her up against the wall, then fingering her until she begs, then letting her ride him as the setting moon begins to fade with dawn.  She bleeds him again, raking his chest as she takes her last pleasure from his cock, and when she leans down to bite his throat this time it is savage enough that she snarls as she does it.  It sets him off again, so that he bucks up into her and hisses through sharp teeth as he comes hard enough to see stars, and doesn't even notice that his claws have marked her until later, when she's lying on her belly in a stupor beside him.  Four parallel lines across each of her thighs, where he'd been holding her.  Bruised as well from his grip, and still bleeding, but shallow, which is fortunate for her.  His longest claws are six curved inches, and fully capable of rending steel.

     While she sleeps, Vergil does too, though lightly; this is still a town infested, and ruled, by demons.  He wakes to find her quietly putting back on the clothes that she finally managed to get off the night before.  The dress, ugly or not, is sturdy, at least; it shows no sign of what it's endured as she smooths the cloth and does up the buttons.

     She turns and sees that he's awake, and nods.  "Pleasure doing business with you, good sir."

     Vergil nods back.  "You should leave Fortuna."

     "I have family here.  Such as it is."

     Vergil leans his head back against the headboard.  "Family," he says, "is a burden.  Best to rid yourself of it, if you mean to grow stronger."

     She sighs and says nothing in reply to this.  The sigh means that the words have been heard, however.  That's good.  He's not in the habit of giving meaningless advice.

     She lifts her skirt to slide the collapsible staff back into its sheath.  "Are you planning to destroy the Order, then?"

     "If I were going to, it would be destroyed."  He shrugs.  "Their little toy Savior is no threat."  Or it wouldn't be, so long as they didn't hogtie Dante and toss him into its heart.  And whatever Dante's other, many, flaws, Vergil's little brother isn't weak enough to be bested by a human cult.  He decides to change the subject.  "They'll know you talked to me, though."

     She makes sure that her hood is fastened properly.  "They'll know I spent the night with you.  I imagine any listeners at the door will tell them, truthfully, what we were up to."

     Ah.  All her yelling had a purpose, then.  Perhaps she merits the honor of prey after all.  He has certainly enjoyed devouring her.

     He hopes she survives, then.  When he opens the permanent gate at Temen-ni-gru.

     "Anyway," she says, checking herself in the mirror and then tucking in a stray, unacceptably ethnic, curl of hair.  "Whatever happens, it was worth it."  She meets his gaze in the mirror, and does not blush or duck her eyes this time.  He inclines his head to her, pleased.  Then she is gone.

#

     "No," Vergil says.  Nero sighs and walks off, muttering in annoyance.

#

     There's good money in devil hunting, though the profession has a high bar for entry and an even higher one for survival.  This means that successful ones, even if they aren't superstars, develop reputations that are easy to inquire about.  _Not_ through Dante, because whatever his little brother's other, many flaws, stupidity isn't one of them -- and Vergil has no interest in hearing snarky comments about the matter for the rest of his life.  The old human, Morrison, turns out to have the most useful information, and that one knows how to keep his counsel... in exchange for an old unused Devil Arm or two.  An insignificant price to pay.

     He spots her immediately, upon walking into the swanky, five-star hotel lobby where she's agreed to meet him.  The hair:  it's free now, a lush mane of rich black curls threaded occasionally with white, and held back from her face by a headband.  She's wearing a white tailored women's suit that fits her frame perfectly, with no shirt so the inner arcs of her breasts peek from the long "v" of the lapels.  The suit has pinstripes.  There are lines in her face, too, but she smells healthy.  Morrison says she's done well as a mid-level hunter.  Not a heavy hitter, but clever.  Reliable.  The lance that sits beside her is not collapsible, not small, and heavy with power.

     She sees him and smiles, lifting the glass of wine that had been sitting beside her.  "You were right," she says, by way of greeting.  "I needed to leave Fortuna.  There were a few snags along the way, but I finally did it."

     "I was wrong," he says, by way of apology.  When her eyebrows rise, he shakes his head, and sits in the chair across from her.  "Not about that.  About family."  He crosses his legs and sets aside Yamato, as is proper for a warrior facing an equal.  "And that I _do_ need to know your name."

     She puffs out a laugh -- and then tilts her head, thoughtful.  He knows her decision when a slow smile spreads across her lips, and this time she doesn't worry about propriety.

     "Well, that's privileged information," she says, her gaze roaming over him freely.  He's pleased to see approval there.  "And I don't just give that away, as you know."

     "Of course."  He unfolds his legs and sits forward, propping elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers.  "I imagine we might come to some sort of arrangement on the payment terms, however.  Don't you agree?"

**Author's Note:**

> I don't write het often because I find it boring. I can *do* het sex myself, after all, so there's not much fantasy factor. Which means that naturally when I do write het, it turns into wild acrobatic shit that I *can't* do anymore because I'm old and inflexible. :)
> 
> Just felt the urge to do this one, probably because of a few throwaway lines in "Three of Swords" where Nero wonders if his mom was as freaky (for multiple meanings of that word) as he is. I skimmed the Vergil/Nero's mom fics out there and found stuff that was way too schmoopy for my tastes. This is Vergil, people, and Vergil back when he was even more of an asshole than he is as a middle-aged guy. I also don't like the idea that Verg and the mom have any kind of romantic entanglement, or fond feelings beyond the possibility of friendship. Vergil's not Sparda, after all; he's much worse on the monster scale than his dad was, in some ways. (Still, if any of you have seen really good Vergil/Nero's Mom fics that successfully make the case for romance, please rec me. Could use some new reading material.)
> 
> My headcanon here is that Vergil will tell Nero about his mom only if the mom is OK with it, after they talk. And my headcanon is that she *won't* be okay with it. She left him behind in Fortuna, left that life behind, and is a different person now -- and that's okay. Vergil gets that. Nero might demand more. Vergil gets that, too, thus the lie.
> 
> Also? The only thing we know about Nero's mom is that he was told she was a prostitute. But the Order also told him that they were angels and everything was on the up-and-up, so... I figured they got the story wrong, probably on purpose, so I decided to flip that narrative and make Vergil the one selling himself. Why not?


End file.
